


Six-Sided

by starmie



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Angst, Catra-centric, Drabble, F/F, Modern AU, an amalgamation of thoughts and feelings, past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23035654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starmie/pseuds/starmie
Summary: Catra tries to erase the lingering memories of her longterm relationship with Adora. She gets preoccupied by lingering memories.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	Six-Sided

**Author's Note:**

> hi all! i haven’t written in a long time but this story beat me over the head and told me to write it. i don’t know if it’s good, or needs to be told, but i hope it resonates with someone. 
> 
> (let me know if i’m any good at writing angst. i’d love to be surprised.)

Catra wasn’t much of a sentimental person. Memories of her crowded orphanage room had been neatly discarded with the rest of her lifetime of abuse. She couldn’t find the strength it gave her, the strength of overcoming hardship, like she thought she was supposed to. She would much rather start over.

As she packed everything that reminded her of Adora into a cardboard box, she convinced herself that was what she was doing. Catra could live in a world without her, a world without the only person who truly understood her. 

She began with the pictures. She resisted to urge to look at all of them before she dumped the Polaroids unceremoniously into the box. As they scattered across the cardboard, Catra decided one couldn’t hurt. Turning it over, her stomach churned.

It was their junior prom. The two of them were posing in front of a Parisian backdrop, Catra’s hands on Adora’s waist as they both laughed. Their outfits matched, Catra’s tacky blue tie matching almost perfectly with Adora’s shimmery dress. She dropped the picture back into the box and shook her head. As she stood up and walked over to her closet, she begged herself not to do it.

The white blazer she wore hung from a hanger in the back of her closet, splotches of pink across the breast pocket where she had spilled some of the spiked punch on herself. Catra grabbed it and weakly slid it over her shoulders, buttoning the top button over her chest. It was a little smaller than it had been when she was 17, hugging her arms and waist much more than it had before. 

She had donated the matching slacks long ago, crumpled up inside a trash bag given to Goodwill. She hoped some other young lesbian got as much use out of them as she had.

Of course, the pièce de résistance was the tie. Sequins were glued haphazardly onto the end of the tie, and an X was drawn in Sharpie at the knot, presumably because a younger Catra thought it would be cool. It mocked her every time she looked at her tie rack. As she walked over to it, something stopped her from grabbing it and putting it on.

“You’re being childish.” Shadow Weaver’s voice echoed through her mind, and her vision turned to another tie on the rack. It was a much more standard tie, only black. As she held it in her hands, she knew it was the one she wore to the funeral.

That was the last time she’d seen Adora, wasn’t it? It had been months after the breakup, and she couldn’t even look her in the eyes. As soon as she saw Adora, Catra ran out of there and got into her car. Head against the steering wheel, she realized that seeing her was the only reason she came. 

Catra took off the blazer, and put both ties into the cardboard box with a thunk. She held the prom Polaroid in both of her hands and tore it in half, something caught in her throat. The pieces floated down into the box, face-down, and she took shaky breaths as she moved on.

The pile of Adora’s old clothes in her closet looked bright and clean next to her own pile of unorganized clothes. Her sweatshirt with the faded logo advertising their high school volleyball team sat folded on top. The muted gray hoodie was the only thing in Catra’s weekly outfit rotation that wasn’t black. She should have given it back years ago. 

Catra lifted the pilling sweatshirt to her nose and inhaled. What a freak move. She found the distinct smell that lingered just enough to latch onto, even after all that time in her closet. It was Adora’s discontinued brand of deodorant mixed with the smoke of contraband cigarettes, along with something magical she couldn’t ever quite place. She put it in the box with a thump.

Six years (four months, two weeks, and a day, Catra’s mind continued like it did every time) of a relationship and this stupid box was all she had to show for it. Her first and last love, and all of these meaningless objects. Her true love, her only love, her only reason to wake up in the morning. 

Catra looked around for anything else that belonged in this box, rummaging through drawers and shelves to make sure she had everything. The hairties at the bottom of her sock drawer could have been hers. She could have bought Catra the mostly-empty lotion bottle at the bottom of her makeup bag. She could have touched the blankets on her bed. 

Fuck. No matter how many showers she took, she wouldn’t ever be clean of the centimeters of skin Adora touched. The “I love you”s and “I miss you”s wouldn’t have been unheard or unspoken with the passage of time.

Catra kicked the box into her closet and turned the light off. A migraine was starting to set in. The continuous stream of cars ignoring stop signs was the only thing she could hear. It was peaceful, like the gentle hum of the radiator in the orphanage bedroom. It would go ca-chunk every so often and Catra would pretend someone lived in their walls.

She pressed her ear to the slate-gray plaster of her bedroom. It was silent. She pounded on the wall twice, hoping to hear something. She felt it, but didn’t hear it. Again. Harder. Nothing.

Catra stood up, ripping a page out of an old spiral notebook and attempting to put her thoughts on paper.

Hey Adora,

Do you remember the guy who lived in Shadow Weaver’s walls? You called him Terry or some dumb shit like that. I always kinda hoped he’d bust out of there and adopt us and get us out of that fucking prison. I guess there aren’t any Terrys in real life. 

I’m sure you’re doing okay. I’m sure your life is better without me in it. I always kinda knew if we broke up, you’d be fine and I’d be the mess. I’m a fucking burnout. I didn’t ever really deserve you in the first place. It just felt good to have you. 

Whatever. Here’s some shit you might want.  
— Catra 

She folded the jagged paper in half and put it on top of the box. For a fleeting moment, she wondered why people wrote letters they didn’t send. 

Catra taped up the box and wrote “Adora” in her large, angular handwriting. The middle line of the A stuck out too far on both ends, and the r looked more like a t where it connected to the second a. She lifted it into her arms, carried it down the stairs, and placed it into her car’s trunk with a slam.

She drove to Adora’s house. She hated how her and her stupid friends had decided to live in the same neighborhood as Scorpia. 

Catra parked her black cherry sedan about 1000 feet from Adora’s place. Her guts were churning like an Amish girl making butter, and she wasn’t feeling good about even the tiniest possibility of interacting with someone who knew who she was. 

She sidestepped to the front door with her back hunched over the box. She was both regretting parking so close and parking so far away. Hefting the box to the porch, she let out a shaky breath. 

Catra put it down, feeling a burden lift from her shoulders and into the atmosphere. She didn’t knock, but she did press her ear to the outer wall of the house. She hoped it would be silent.

It was.


End file.
